The Suppressor

by Erik Carter

  Silence exhaled. Moved. Heard the lap of a small wave against the pod’s wall. The 93.5-degree water felt colder.

  Shit. There was no connection. He’d lost the thread. And, with it, hope.

  Keep going, love, C.C. said. You’re almost there. Stay focused.

  He allowed the water, the pitch-black nothingness to consume him again.

  Back to the hallway. Staring into Burton’s sneering smile. The memory had gone back in time a few seconds, like someone had pulsed the REWIND button.

  A chance for me to reconnect with my roots, Burton said again. With Daddy. A real homecoming. Know what I mean?

  And Silence was gone. Out of Florida. Out of the heat and humidity. Into a cold, decrepit room. Broken linoleum floor. Dangling ceiling tiles. Gray skies and a ruined urban landscape visible through the windows. He was back in Virginia. Two weeks earlier. With Falcon and Nakiri. Receiving his final briefing before Laswell shipped him back to Pensacola.

  They’d given him more information about Burton, intel they’d acquired from Nakiri’s undercover work posing as the man’s girlfriend.

  His biological father was Jacques Sollier, Nakiri had said. An international terrorist, active in the mid ’60s through the ’70s.

  Burton’s “Daddy.”

  Not his adopted father, Joey Farone, as Silence had been thinking. The man’s real daddy.

  Sollier’s specialty was utilizing shipping ports, Nakiri had said. Transporting weapons and explosives and hostages and himself.

  As a major Gulf Coast city, Pensacola had a port.

  And Pensacola was also hosting a very popular, very busy festival that night. The Tristán Festival. Almost all of the city’s attention and resources would be focused on the event.

  Including the police presence.

  Whatever Burton had scheduled with the terrorists, it was set for 8 p.m., which was only a half hour after the official start time of the festival.

  When everyone’s attention would be far away from the port.

  Burton was reconnecting with his roots, with his “daddy” Jacques Sollier, by dealing with international ne’er-do-wells at a seaport.

  Which meant Silence needed to get his ass to the Port of Pensacola.

  He’d found the connection.

  Good, love. Good.

  Silence’s eyes snapped open.

  Darkness surrounded him. Pitch black. There was the gentle sound of water.

  No hesitation. He pushed the button beside him, and the bright blue light faded up as he threw open the lid.

  He stood in the pod, dripping wet and buck naked. The tiny, bare bedroom with a half-finished wall glowed blue. His flesh goose-bumped in the cranked-high air conditioning.

  He took the towel from the chair, quickly dried off, and put on the outfit he’d stored for the occasion—black boots, a pair of black Levi’s, a white T, and a black canvas jacket that he’d gotten at a high-end men’s store downtown. The jacket was sturdily constructed, but just as importantly, it provided a tactical advantage—unzipped, it made the outfit city chic; zipped, the change provided its real purpose, a sturdy top layer to an all-black tactical outfit.

  Through the house, the floorboards squeaking. The weight of the Beretta felt good against his ribs in its shoulder holster. The suppressor was in his pocket.

  He threw the front door open. Locked it.

  The thick air struck him. It wasn’t warm. In fact, the temperature had dropped. But it was more humid than it had been earlier in the day. Florida air did that sometimes—got thicker as it grew colder.

  The sounds from downtown were louder now. Things were picking up even before the fun officially began. Shouts, music, laughter, car horns.

  Mrs. Enfield was on her porch swing again. “Silence?”

  “Will be back,” he replied as he headed for the street. He said it too loudly. A slice of pain in his throat made him groan.

  Across his deep porch, down the steps, onto the sidewalk.

  The Mercury Sable that had been his ride for two weeks since returning to Pensacola—compliments of the Watchers—was parked in the drive between his house and Mrs. Enfield’s. He rushed toward it, checked his watch.

  7:06.

  It would take him about five minutes to get to the docks. He had time. Plenty of time. But Nakiri had taught him that there was never enough time, so he would need to—

  “Hey!”

  A figure stalked toward him, from the street. Arms at mid-chest level, holding a sawed-off shotgun.

  Doughty.

  Silence’s immediate reaction wasn’t panic or shock or even dread.

  It was frustration.

  He’d just figured out the connection, how to stop a terrorist plot against the nation; how to complete his first Watchers assignment, securing a future for himself in this new identity he’d obtained; how to get his revenge against the man who murdered his fiancée and destroyed his life.

  And now he was being confronted by a damn street thug.

  But quickly those thoughts were replaced by a more rational, primal sense of urgency. He was in danger. Doughty had caught Silence completely off-guard. No time to go for the Beretta. If he did, this guy would cut him down.

  He put his hands up.

  “You made me look like a fool, old man!”

  Doughty continued toward him, steps long and purposeful, crunching in the gravel. His lower lip trembled. His eyebrows were a V.

  A small voice came from the side. “Silence? What’s going on?”

  Mrs. Enfield, a few feet away, her wrinkled hands clasping her porch’s railing, white eyes blinking rapidly.

  Shit.

  “Step back, ma’am,” Silence said.

  A slice in his throat. He swallowed.

  Doughty glanced over, sneering. “Well, hey there, Granny. I’ll get to you when I’m done with your boyfriend here.”

  He looked back to Silence, kept pressing forward.

  “You done messed up bad, old man. I killed a dude two years ago. Got away with it, too. And I’m not afraid to take another.”

  The determination in Doughty’s eyes was as genuine as the shotgun in his hands. Silence had destroyed the punk’s pride earlier, and for a man like this, a man of pure ego, that was tantamount to kicking him in the nuts.

  This was a dangerous situation.

  But Silence had learned how to stay cool under unexpected pressure. One day during training, Nakiri had shown up two hours early, unannounced—she’d barged into his room and fired three rounds from her pistol into the small stretch of linoleum flooring between his bed and the medical equipment. The sound had been deafening, and the glint in her eye made him certain she’d lost her mind and was going to kill him. He’d jumped back so quickly, the IV ripped from his arm.

  Be prepared for anything, she’d said with a maniacal grin as she holstered her Beretta. Never flinch. Don’t be rattled.

  Months before that, C.C. had given him similar, albeit gentler, advice. A torrent of duties in his undercover assignment had overwhelmed him, many of the duties dangerous and testing his moral limits. She’d given him a quote: If you remain calm in the midst of great chaos, it is the surest guarantee it will eventually subside.

  He’d asked if that quote was from the Dalai Lama. Or Deepak Chopra, perhaps. Nope. An actress. Julie Andrews. Insight comes from a wide variety of sources, she’d told him.

  With the wisdom he’d gained from rage-filled Nakiri and peaceful C.C.—by way of Julie Andrews—a gun-toting punk who just crawled out of an El Camino was a threat but nothing to get rattled about.

  He kept his gaze locked on Doughty, who was within feet.

  He studied the eyes. Doughty meant business. Silence was good at reading people, but he’d slightly underestimated this guy earlier—Doughty may have been undertrained, but he wasn’t lacking in carry-through.

  “I’m not afraid to blast you right here, right now,” he said, and Silence believed him. He stopped walking, within a couple feet, close
enough that Silence could see the saw-blade markings on the lip of the shotgun’s barrel. “And you think that—”

  A flash of Silence’s hand.

  Mrs. Enfield screamed.

  Again, Silence had moved without knowing. The cold steel of the shortened barrel was in his hand, and without pause, his fist flew toward Doughty, cracking him across the jaw with a wet crunch.

  Doughty crumbled, torso twisted, face in the gravel.

  Silence tossed the shotgun into the bushes beside his house, crouched, reached for the worn pattern in the back pocket of Doughty’s jeans—the bulge of a wallet.

  The wallet was even more worn-out than the jeans, its leather slick and corners rounded. It was jammed with candy bar wrappers, credits cards, receipts, but only a few greenbacks.

  He removed the driver’s license.

  MANUEL DOUGHTY

  455 PREVUE AVENUE

  APT 302

  MOBILE, ALABAMA

  Still crouched, Silence leaned into Doughty’s groaning face, put the license an inch in front of his eyes.

  “Keeping this.” He swallowed. “Know where you live.” He swallowed. “Don’t come back here.”

  Doughty’s eyes snapped open. He bolted up. A fist caught Silence on the jaw.

  Mrs. Enfield screamed again.

  Silence shuffled in the gravel and fell to his back.

  Doughty jumped on him, and, as before, Silence flushed with frustration, but not fear. The man’s weight felt like nothing as Silence caught him by the shoulders and slammed him back to the ground.

  Doughty’s arm went up, a pathetic attempt at a strike. Silence twisted the arm behind his back.

  Doughty yelped.

  Keeping Doughty’s wrists in his hand, Silence slid over, stones grinding his knees through his jeans. He straddled the other man and pressed his face into the gravel as he pulled the arm farther and farther back. Popping noises. Tendons, cartilage beginning to tear.

  He heard Mrs. Enfield. Muffled, distant.

  Silence envisioned what could have happened if he’d not been there. The old, blind woman in fear. Or hurt. Or dead. In a huge puddle of her blood.

  C.C. in a pile of her blood. Dead. Because of men like this, like this piece of human filth that Silence was pressing into the earth, this piece of shit.

  He could rid the world of this waste, rub it out of this reality. For Mrs. Enfield. For C.C.

  One more thrust of Doughty’s face into the gravel, then he repositioned, grabbing a handful of greasy hair. He lifted Doughty’s face two inches off the ground, and smashed it down.

  THUD!

  A line of bloody snot shot out of Doughty’s nose. His eyes were closed.

  Silence’s fingers were taut and hard, buzzing with the endurance strength Nakiri had beaten into him.

  He raised the head again.

  THUD!

  More blood, a glob of it that came out in a cough.

  He’d heard bone crack that time.

  Doughty whimpered.

  Silence tightened his machine grip in the filthy hair, brought the head up again.

  Felt something on his back.

  Something tiny and soft.

  A small voice. “Silence…”

  He looked up. His teeth were bared, grinding. A bead of sweat raced down the sharp angle of his cheekbone.

  Mrs. Enfield. Standing right beside him. Blind eyes looking down at him with her hand on his shoulder. Slowly shaking her head.

  “Silence. Stop, baby. Stop. Leave him be.”

  Silence stared at her.

  Her head continued to shake. No. Returning his gaze somehow.

  He turned his head an inch to look at her hand, minuscule on his broad shoulder.

  Then to Doughty. The man’s eyes were closed. Squirming. Coughing. Lips wet with blood.

  Silence wanted to eliminate him, this man who would harm a woman like Mrs. Enfield. A little, old woman. A little, old hand on his shoulder.

  But did Silence really want to kill?

  Mrs. Enfield’s head still moved side to side. And just like the lessons that had surfaced a few moments earlier—those from Nakiri and C.C.—he’d just received a new lesson from Mrs. Enfield: the importance of mercy.

  He leaned into Doughty’s face. The mans’ eyes opened. Wide. Stared at him. Shaking.

  Silence spoke through his teeth. “Get. Out!”

  Then several things happened at once.

  Doughty scrambled in the gravel, got to his feet, crossed the street to his El Camino, and was gone. At the same time, Silence felt soft pressure on his back, a gentle lifting force that did nothing to actually lift him but still guided him. He was on his feet, walking, though he didn’t feel himself moving. All he felt was a bony, dry hand in his, squeezing gently, leading him onto a creaking porch, sitting him down on a swing, bringing his head to her shoulder.

  His thoughts became a tempest. Nothing connected. He felt himself tumbling into chaos, threads of reason slipping through his fingers, losing control.

  What would C.C. tell him to do? Would she tell him to meditate? To take deep, diaphragmatic breaths?

  Mrs. Enfield ran her hand along his cheek and leaned her face against the top of his head.

  Silence felt himself shake.

  His arms trembled first. Then his stomach. Then his chest.

  Heaving, lurching movements. His eyes pinched shut, but no tears came out. His mouth widened, lips motioning, no vocalizations, the only sounds were shudders.

  It felt just like that night in the Grand Prix, after listening to the final message from C.C., weeping on his steering wheel.

  The same, but different. Crying without crying.

  Mrs. Enfield continued to stroke his cheek. Her other arm was behind his back, rocking with his convulsions, hand squeezing his shoulder.

  “Shhh,” she said. “It’s okay. Shhh.”

  She hummed. He didn’t recognize the song. It sounded old-fashioned. And sweet.

  A killer. An assassin. That’s what he was to be. Someone who lived in violence. His future was to be one of revenge. Not just revenge for C.C.’s murder. Revenge for all sorts of wrongs, for justice eluded.

  He would be a shadow. He would bring pain and death.

  That was no existence. That wasn’t an identity.

  One of C.C.’s quotes flashed through his mind, one attributed to Confucius, though possibly misattributed.

  Before you embark on a journey of revenge, dig two graves.

  Revenge flew in the face of C.C.’s peaceful teachings, her aggregate of wisdom from around the world and through the ages. Humanity had concluded that revenge was a poison.

  But then his thoughts went away from C.C. To Nakiri. And Falcon. The Watchers. Its mission. Violence, it would seem, was sometimes the only answer to injustice.

  Another of C.C.’s quotes, this one from German poet Heinrich Heine.

  We should forgive our enemies, but not before they’re hanged.

  She’d given him this quote shortly after telling him how destructive revenge could be. She’d smirked as she’d said it. An opposing viewpoint. Contradictions. She always saw things from all sides.

  Violence was needed to stop Burton, this man who was on the verge of a terrorist plot against the nation.

  Violence was needed to stop others just like Burton, so many others.

  And, as his shaking subsided, as his moment an incertitude drifted away, listing out of Mrs. Enfield’s porch and into the pink sky, he realized that he still wanted revenge.

  C.C. was right—revenge was a bane. But he still wanted it.

  Needed it.

  Just as he needed to be a protector, a person who corrected gross injustices.

  An Asset.

  A Watcher.

  Mrs. Enfield’s hand slowed, and the song she’d been humming faded away.

  He straightened up and faced her, found her milky eyes waiting for him.

  “Better?” she said.

  He grunted a Yes.
<
br />   “I told you, Silence, I don’t need to know exactly what it is you do. Because I know you’re a good man. Whatever’s happening tonight, I know it’s important. You got the energy pouring off you in waves. You do what you need to do. And come back safe to me.”

  He took her hand, squeezed it, then stood up.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  He stepped off the porch and headed for his car.

  It was time to see Burton.

  Chapter Sixty-Six

  Silence would have preferred complete darkness when he and Nakiri arrived at the Port of Pensacola.

  As it was, the sky was streaked with blazing purples and brilliant pinks, dark but still giving off plenty of light, which had a surreal golden quality. But it would die off soon, at the 7:24 sunset. That was why the festival’s start time was 7:30—to coincide with Nature’s light show. Six roaring jets would tear through the sky to help ring in the festival, giving Mother Nature a helping hand with the theatrics. The Blue Angels flyover.

  Silence tugged the zipper of his black canvas jacket, cinching it tight, hiding all hints of the white shirt beneath. Next to him, Nakiri was also decked out in black tactical gear. Hers was formfitting and sleek. Like Silence’s clothes, hers could easily be adapted to night-out-wear if she tossed on a belt or a scarf.

  They approached the fence—ten feet tall and topped with barbed wire. Beyond were warehouses and a pair of big ships and lots of big, metal machinery covered with chipped paint and illuminated by bright lights. Though he couldn’t see it, Silence knew that in the distance—the southwest corner—was the area that stored the intermodal shipping containers. His objective.

  A green metal sign with white text stared at Silence from its position, secured on the chainlink fence.

  NO TRESSPASSING

  The Port of Pensacola is a Border Entry Point. All Persons, Effects, Vehicles, and Vessels are Subject to Search in Accordance with State and Federal Statutes.

  Nakiri held up a black, scratchy looking blanket.

  “Did you bring one?” she said.

  Silence shook his head.

  She tugged at the top of the blanket, which was actually two blankets, and threw one hard at his chest.